Something More
by Ad Hominem Argument
Summary: Ichabod is wrapped up with trying to free Katrina leaving Abbie to wonder where she fits in. Meanwhile the town is reeling from the gruesome murder of the mayor's wife. Our two favorite witnesses must settle their differences to defeat the next of the four horsemen and maybe, just maybe they can become something more. *slow burn* *Not cannon but will pull from certain episodes*
1. Chapter 1

**Sleepy Hollow**

**A/N- Hello all, welcome to my first foray into the fandom of Sleepy Hollow! I'm pretty excited about not only this show, but this story. Majority of the time when I write I'll be shipping Ichabod/Abbie unless I otherwise state so. I will never write a story with Katrina fully involved (the way she is on the show) and have Ichabod sleeping with Abbie thus implying an affair, because let's face it, for now he's still madly in love with his wife. Can you blame the guy? He did just wake up after a 250 year nap. I am also in the process of writing an M rated one shot series much like my others so if you have any suggestions feel free to PM, email, or tweet (That_Broad_Chic) them to me!**

**Am I the only one who simply melts at his using the proper term "Leftenant"? So much cuteness there I feel as if I'll spontaneously combust! So of course, he'll continue to call her that. For those of you who don't know why he calls her that and thinks he completely idiotic: According to the Oxford English Dictionary, **_**leuf **_**is a variant spelling of **_**lieu**_**, tracing the pronunciation back to its Old French and Middle English usage around the 12th century shows that both the English **_**lef-tenant **_**and the American **_**lew-tenant **_**were both in use. So, when Ichabod Crane says leftenant instead of lieutenant, the simple answer is, it's the British pronunciation. Why Americans say lewtenant instead of leftenant is because of reformers like Noah Webster, who wanted not only to iron out the inconsistencies in English spelling and grammar, but also to create a distinctive, American language. Why no one has corrected him is simple as well. A handsome, quirky, well mannered gothic hero who talks in poetically archaic English and wears a romantically puffy shirt is absolutely more interesting than someone who talks like everyone else. ( .au/filmtv/sleepy-hollow-lieutenant-leftenant-and- the-american-revolution/)**

**Lastly, reviews make us writer's feel as if we aren't wasting our time and you enjoy our work. So please, for my sanity, R&R!**

**ENJOY!**

**Jazz**

**Pocantico Grove, Sleepy Hollow 1882**

A stout farmer idly whistles a tune as he tethers his horse to a tree.

"Easy, Amy." The Clydesdale whinnies and rears back, breaking free of the rope and galloping away. Its frantic neighs echo discordantly through the otherwise peaceful woods on the early Sunday morning. Gathering his wits, the farmer begins to untie the rope from the tree, but quickly decides that his efforts are futile and the broken rope is useless; so instead, he runs after the fleeing Stallion. Pausing for breath, the farmer - let's call him Mr. Everson - pants as he scans the woods for his horse.

"Ammmy!" he yells, his voice coming out in a hoarse croak. Staring at the sight in front of him, he backs away and allows his eyes to scan the woods.

"What-" he whispers to himself, unable to finish his sentence as a creature suddenly appears in front of him. Mere seconds earlier, this same creature had been far off in the distance, between the four white trees. The creature was unearthly and grotesque, the stuff of nightmares. It appeared to be at least half man, with claws three inches long and the horns of a goat. Its voice, low and decidedly un-human, was perhaps the most disturbing part of the whole being. Poor Mr. Everson, you see, could have no way of knowing that this awful monster was called Moloch. All Mr. Everson would know was the agonizing, searing pain as the creature drove its claw slowly across his abdomen.

**Sleepy Hollow, Present Day**

The fire crackles and the woman tending to it howls with laughter. Seven school-aged girls all dressed in black, circle the fire in a trancelike dance. The sound of drums and flutes resonate through the forest, and the girls seem almost possessed by it. Overhead, the sky is such a deep, dark, and endless black that it appears starless. The half moon hangs low in the sky, its orange glow making the fire appear brighter. The woman drops the hood of her red silk robe, revealing her face. She is beautiful, with hair as bright as the fire and eyes as green as a cat's. She smiles deviously as she looks at the woman in front of her.

"Esther, Esther, Esther."

The woman called Esther, with brown curly hair and piercing blue eyes, snarls fiercely, contorting her delicate features into something demonic. Her body, completely naked, hangs from a stake with no nails, pins, or other restrictive forces. She seems suspended in the air, as if by magic.

"**Nu me ador dews thsan."** (You will burn for this.) She howls spittle on her lips. With a flick of her wrist, the red cloaked woman incites the fire, its flames lapping at her toes. Taking a dagger from her cloak, she draws a crescent shaped moon on the forehead of her victim.

"Esther, your sacrifice is one needed for our cause. The blood coursing through your veins is the only blood strong enough to summon him. But don't worry, dear one," she tells the woman, a grin etching two deep lines into the writhing witch's cheeks.

"Your sacrifice will not be the only one for our cause. The ritual, as you know, requires seven sacrifices. One," she carves another crescent moon on each thigh. "A week." She throws her head back in ecstasy as the flames consume her screaming captive.

**Westchester Police Department, the next day…**

Sitting at her desk, Lieutenant Grace Abigail Mills takes her time typing up her last DD-5 and pointedly ignores the brooding Brit sitting next to her. Feeling particularly ornery, she shifts her typing speed yet again, fingers no longer flying across the keyboard. Now, she pecks at the keyboard, much like a novice computer user, and peers over at him. Crane. His name alone, unspoken, causes her to snarl. Forcing herself to look away before she does something not-so-out of-character (like choke him), she goes back to obnoxiously pecking at the keyboard.

"L.e.t. h.i.m. k.n.o.w." she pecks, inwardly grinning at his growing distress. She knows she really shouldn't be angry with him. It had been weeks since their last Moloch encounter and even that wasn't as bad compared to their initial attacks. _What the hell is he waiting for? _she thinks, pecking harder. Crane cringes and puffs his cheeks out. Checkmate. She grins. Continuing her one fingered typing; she allows her mind to drift to the cause of the ache in her heart.

…

_**The woods are ablaze. There is a thick smoke in her throat and eyes, making it impossible to see even an inch in front of her.**_

"_**Crane!" she coughs, her voice hollow sounding in her own ears. Dropping to her knees, she waves her hand in front of her. It's a futile act, but it's one she performs regardless in hopes of gaining a little sight. Instead, she is reduced to crawling on all fours, her only escape from the air-stealing smoke. All around are the sounds of a battle, her senses hyperaware even in her state of reduced breath. The only thing keeping her going is the thought of finding him. Seeing him, tall and regal, with his arm held behind his back and a lazy grin igniting the magnanimous blue of his eyes.**_

"_**Crane!" she croaks, her voice giving out. Coughing, gasping, fighting for air, she crawls an inch further. Her body, every bone and every organ, is aching and bruised.**_

"_**LEFTENANT!"**_

_**She stops. Is it him? It can't be. Her mind is playing tricks on her.**_

"_**Crane!" she screams back, somehow finding**__**her voice**_,_** finding air, finding the strength to stand and look around, eyes search the surrounding woods. She tries; oh she tries, to see past the dense smoke. She sees Moloch and his demons swinging from the trees, igniting everything they touch in their wake. And then she sees him, ragged high collared coat dirty and torn at one sleeve, circling as he shouts for her. HER.**_

"_**I'm here!" She starts to sprint to him until another figure appears, causing her to falter, unable to look away.**_

"_**Ichabod!" she hears the figure sing with a voice as sweet as melodic rain. The woman runs to her husband, almost knocking him over as her body collides forcefully with his.**_

"_**Quickly, we must hurry. There isn't much time left. If the demons destroy this forest, Moloch will have free reign over Sleepy Hollow," she urges, forcing something into his hand. "You must use this on Iosis."**_

_**Crane is preoccupied with kissing her eyes, her sooty cheeks, and her beautiful lips before he looks at the object in his hand.**_

"_**How will I know which one, my dearest?" he asks, holding her close. He knows they only have but a moment. Always but a moment. The pair, lost in this moment of their own, drift away from her.**_

"_**He is the one with the markings of the beast on his chest. You must strike him in the ab-" her voice cuts off abruptly as she is torn from his arms and thrown back through smoke and flames.**_

"_**Katrina!" he screams, running after her.**_

_**Abbie stands, as if rooted to the spot by a force not her own. Her strength, just a moment ago so resolute, leaves her body and she falls. When she opens her eyes, she notices she's flat on her back, something heavy, so heavy, on top of her chest. This force, whatever it is, cuts off what little circulation she had. Gathering strength, she begins to raise her arms when she feels something wet and tongue-like on her cheek.**_

"_**Ande aoskg ndneifk jeh Abigail." (You belong to me Abigail.) She screams and begins to fight harder. Crippling fear penetrates her body, locking her extremities and leaving her vulnerable to the attack of this unseen demon on top of her. She hears the whistle of the wind as its claws make contact with her skin before she feels the pain of the blow. Screaming with equal parts fear and pain, she blacks out only to awaken in a hospital bed.**_

"_**Crane?" She croaks, her entire left side burning with pain.**_

"_**Shh, rest Abbie," he croons kissing her forehead. She wills herself to open her eyes and address the speaker, surprised by how hard she must concentrate in order to perform this one, simple motion. After what feels like an eternity, she succeeds.**_

"_**Crane," she whimpers, throat still burning from the smoke. Her eyes slowly focus and she looks up to see Detective Luke Morales.**_

"_**No Abs, it's me." He smiles, folds a straw and offers a cup of water to her dry lips. She welcomes it, the cool liquid soothing her irritated throat.**_

"_**Where is Crane?" she asks, trying to sit up. Instead, she lets out a howl of pain, her left arm giving out. She looks at her left shoulder, only to see thick gauze with patches of red covering her entire shoulder.**_

"_**Abbie. Rest," he instructs firmly, yet in a gentle tone. "You and Crane decided to run into the woods in the middle of a forest fire, for reasons unknown to me. Somehow you must've got snagged on a tree branch or something, because you have one hell of a set of scratch marks, Abs. If Crane hadn't carried you out, I don't think firefighters would've found you in time. You scared me," he whispers, stroking her cheek.**_

_**A forest fire? What?**_

"_**Did we kill him?" Her eyes close and she sees the entire experience again, feels the agonizing terror of that unseen thing on top of her and begins to shake.**_

"_**Kill who? The fire was an accident. Rest Abbie, I think you're a little delirious from the medicine. I'll be here when you wake up."**_

"_**Crane?" She whispers again.**_

"_**He's… I don't know. He said he must go to the place where he last saw Katrina. He must free her, whatever that means."**_

"_**What place?" Her voice takes on a dreamy tone, her body overexerted.**_

"_**I don't know. Good riddance is all I have to say. Now rest, Grace." And with that, her mind full of feelings she isn't quite sure how to describe, she falls into a deep sleep.**_

…

"LEFTENANT." Fingers snap in her face bringing her back to the present.

She flinches, her fingers typing an unknown word on the keyboard. She looks over to see not only Ichabod Crane, but her Captain and Morales staring down at her. To make matters worse, her fellow officers are looking over at them in bemusement.

"What?" She keeps the snarl at bay.

"Have you heard nothing I've just said to you?" Captain Irving eyes her suspiciously, and then leans down to speak directly into her ear. "Is it too early to be back, Mills? Maybe two days wasn't en-" She cuts him off with a shake of her head so fierce she feels a headache start to come on.

"No, sir. I'm fine. I was just daydreaming. Won't happen again, sir." She stands and grabs her coat. "What's going on?"

"Let Crane fill you in on the way. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery." Nodding, she bites back a moan of pain as she lifts her left arm to slide her jacket on. The wince doesn't go unnoticed by Crane - he moves to take the jacket from her right hand and assist her.

"I've got it," she bites, trying not to feel anything when he gives her a wounded look.

"You seem to still be in much pain, Leftenant." He says calmly, his eyes a storm of emotion.

"I'm fine, Crane. Tell me about the scene." She needs a change of topic or she's going to lose it. Too much too soon. Her shoulder throbs and she gives it a slow roll to prevent it from locking up. It's becoming clear pretty quickly that today is going to be a bitch.

"Leftenant, I believe I'm a tad bit behind. Is there something you wish to tell me? Your behavior is rather, bellicose." He stops to give her his full attention, eyes boring into hers.

_He knows, _is all she can think. But what is there for him to know? _She_ doesn't even know what she knows, so how can he know she knows something she isn't telling him? She shakes her head, confusing herself. Maybe Irving was onto something. Clearly, she shouldn't be at work.

"What? Crane. No. You going to tell me about the crime scene or not?"

"Very well, Leftenant." He nods, opening the door for her. "There seems to have been some sort of ritualistic killing last night. A few residents who live near the north edge of the woods reported hearing drums and other strange music. A woman named Esther Newcastle is the deceased." Nearly tripping, she grabs his arm just in time to catch herself. He studies the peculiarity of the look on her face as he steadies her.

"Do you know Ms. Newcastle?" He inquires.

Her fingers tremble as she reaches into her pocket to retrieve her car keys.

"Um, yeah, that's Mayor Newcastle's wife. This can't be happening right now." She unlocks her Jeep and climbs in, mind racing with possibilities. Sleepy Hollow will never be the same.

**A/N- BIG, BIG thanks to Persephone Price for beta-ing this for me! I thought it was pretty good, but she made it great. Everyone thank her! I'm working on chapter two right now so it shouldn't be long before it's up!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sleepy Hollow**

**A/N-First, I'd like to thank my two amazing beta's. You girls sure do know how to keep me on my toes! To everyone who visited, reviewed, faved, or followed this story, thank you so much. The support helps me see I'm doing something right! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get the chapter up; I had some unexpected things pop up. In case you're wondering, in chapter one I went and wrote out 'Leftenant', from this point forward, I'm going to spell it correctly (Lieutenant) and trust that you know he's saying 'Leftenant.'**

**XxX**

**Sleepy Hollow Cemetery**

Stepping out of the Jeep - or motorized carriage, as Crane calls all vehicles - Abbie surveys the scene in front of her. The air is crisp, the leaves starting their annual change from vibrant greens to varying shades of death. The cemetery, usually appropriately solemn, is abuzz with activity. A single crow squawks from its perch on a nearby oak tree. The breeze picks up and blows Abbie's bangs into her eyes. She shivers, the eerie stillness of her environment taking its toll.

"I have a bad feeling this crime scene has something to do with our otherworldly activities, Crane." She says grimly, heading in the direction of the uniformed guard on the scene. Nodding his agreement, Ichabod falls into step with her, bracing himself for the gruesome image he had been warned about.

"Who found her?" She asks tilting the badge on her hip to the officer for inspection.

"I did." He says, color draining from his face at the thought. Hands on his hips, he swallows audibly, clearly trying to get hold of himself.

"I'm sorry, care to clarify, officer?" The town of Sleep Hollow, all 144,000 citizens, were already alive with a mixture of fear, wonderment, and curiosity regarding the death of the mayor's wife. The _mayor's_ wife. She shudders, not in the mood for the backlash this was already causing. She looks between the sickly officer and Crane realizing something amiss.

"Go see for yourself." He is barely able to spit his sentence out before he runs to a nearby tree to vomit. Staring after him, Abbie clenches her jaw; her thoughts go everywhere and nowhere until Crane cuts in.

"I hope that type of behavior isn't customary for law enforcement. In my day, that type of conduct would have resulted in dire consequences." He informs her dryly. She looks up at him out of the corner of her eye.

"No," she begins making her way over to Morales; Cranes' long legs allow him to keep in step with her, despite her increased speed. She does not need his judgment right now.

"However," she continues. "Just because we are law enforcement doesn't mean we are absolved from feeling any sort of emotion." She says this hotly, angry for no particular reason.

"Forgive me Ms. Mills, I did not mean to imply that one within the field of law enforcement … bloody hell!" He stops, mouth slightly agape, face pale and developing a slight perspiration. Fingers trembling, he points to the offensive item. Noting his countenance, she turns in the direction his finger is pointing.

"Oh God." Her eyes scan the scene in a matter of seconds taking in every crevice; the images are forever burned into her skull. Rubbing her eyes she tells herself to prepare for the nightmares she knows she'll have for quite some time. How do you prepare for- oh God, what the hell was this? Rolling her shoulders and struggling to hold down the piece of toast for breakfast, she moves forward.

"Are you coming, Crane?" She stops a few feet in front of him, she doesn't want to face it alone. Nodding quickly, he takes a shaky step and moves to follow her.

"Here." She reaches down into an opened crime scene technicians' bag, her stride never breaking, and snaps on the blue department-issue latex gloves to rub a little vapor rub under her nose. She holds the bottle out to him.

"This will help with the smell of the body." He takes it from her and sniffs the contents curiously. After examining the bottle, he sniffs again, causing her to raise an eyebrow.

"This is Turpentine." He looks awestruck- reverent, even, and momentarily forgets the horror of the crime scene in his amazement.

"There may be some turpentine in it," she answers as she kneels next to a headstone. With her stomach rolling, she's grateful for Crane's pointless incredulity.

"But, I'm failing to see your point." She stands and eyes her surroundings again.

"My point," he says crossly, looking around again as well. "Is that, Turpentine was used for a plethora of reasons. It's actually quite astounding how liberally the substance was used." Abbie observes him, watching his face come alive; she can't help but think that he looks a bit adorable.

Paying her blatant adoration no mind, he continues on with his explanation: "External rubefacient, stimulant, astringent, a laxative even. To burn turpentine in lamps it only required purification by redistillation and a burner … and it was one of the best means of chasing away flees."

Crane," she says to jar him out of his diatribe. Enough. They need to focus on the crime scene.

Unhearing, he rambles on, "If you melt together an earthen pipkin half, one pound tallow, four ounces of hog's lard, two ounces of turpentine, and as much beeswax…"

"Who gives a shit dude? It's 2013," Morales quips as he walks up.

Looking at Abbie with a wounded expression on his face, Crane begins in a rush of words. "Lieutenant, I was merely expressing my profound amazement something survived the great changes of the generations." He places a little vapor rub under his nose with a huff. She nods taking the clear evidence containerMorales hands to her.

"I know Crane." She smiles softly. Rolling his eyes, Morales steps between them and bends to her ear.

"He's a grown man and you baby him likes he's some type of invalid." Shock colors her expression rendering her momentarily speechless.

"LUKE!" She numbly looks down at the object she's holding, her mind obscurely registering what it is. Goggling, Crane snatches it.

"Oh dear heavens, is that …?" He swallows heavily.

"That," Morales says morosely, not looking at Abbie. "Is her tongue."

Abbie moves over and kneels next to Esther Newcastle's head. Earlier Crane had described the scene to her in his customary formal, prim tone. He detailed the precise markings made on the tree, tombstones, and Mrs. Newcastle's face and body. In fact, Crane had taken such care in his description of the torrid scene that Abbie had had a visceral reaction to what her imagination had conjured. She had never seen such an atrocious murder in the quaint, quiet town of Sleepy Hollow, a reality Crane was able to decipher rather quickly. What dear Crane had neglected to mention was that First Lady Newcastle's tongue had been removed from her body. And, from what Morales was telling her, this foul transgression had occurred while Mrs. Newcastle was not only alive, but conscious.

"Miss Mills?" Crane begins testily, standing next to the badly scarred and burned body.

Peeling her eyes away, she raises an eyebrow in response. "I recognize these markings."

**XxX **

**Cabin of deceased August Corbin**

Standing in the doorway, Jennifer Mills looks around the cabin of her deceased mentor. When Corbin told her that Abbie would come back to her when she was ready she had laughed in his face. In fact, she'd told him she would shoot her sister if she even so much as crossed the doorway to her room. And yet, here she is two months later and she still hasn't shot her sister … yet. She's still a know-it-all. She's probably sleeping with Crane. But, still, overall, she isn't so bad. With a sigh, she walks to the thick pine wood table and drops her belongings onto it. Looking up to see her reflection in the mirror she notices a figure behind her. She takes a curious step forward and five terrified steps back, but her reflection stays put while Moloch's long claws slide across the figures abdomen in what seems like slow motion. The other Jennifer Mills drops into a heap, cracking the mirror when she hits the floor and causes the demon to disappear. Shaking, she raises her shirt and looks down at the spot where Moloch had wounded her reflection. A deep purple bruise is starting to form. She's barely had time to enjoy being normal, whatever society's definition of normalcy is, and then this mess begins again. But Corbin had warned both her and Abbie, and this was their life now, so she may as well get used to it.

"Oh shit." She breathes pulling out her phone to call her sister.

**XxX**

**Sleepy Hollow Cemetery**

"Oh hell," Morales grumbles upon seeing Abbie's piqued interest. "And where have you seen these markings, Oxford?" Refusing to enter into a battle of wits he knew he would win, Crane keeps his gaze on Abbie.

"Lieutenant, I have seen these markings before," he states again rather pointedly. "In fact, so have you." The way he looks at her makes his meaning very clear and her lips form an "O" shape as she nods slowly.

"Morales, can you go ask CSU if she was restrained by anything? I want her body off this stake and I want to know what caused those markings." She orders.

"Sure," he nods, looking between them. "But we need to talk Abbie." She too nods, before turning her attention back to Crane.

"Where the hell are these markings from?" She whispers harshly, stepping closer to him to avoid being overheard.

"Do you remember Serilda of Abaddon?" Hands on her hips she narrows her eyes to little slits.

"Yes. So?" She smiles absently at a passerby, not paying attention to who it is.

"Do you remember anything distinctive about her?"

Abbie runs a hand over her face and shakes her head dejectedly.

"Other than you were throwing the torch that bought her to her second and, hopefully final, death? No."

"On her palm…" He begins. Recognition flashes over her features.

"That symbol! Hang on a second!" Taking out her phone, she stops a technician just before she begins to move the body. After taking a picture of the symbol on her hand, she looks at Crane.

"Does this mean what I think it is means?" She turns back to the body to document the other markings when her phone rings.

"Jenny, slow down. What happened?" She begins to pace, her free hand running through her hair nervously. "What?" She begins to walk to her vehicle, a determined look on her face. "Morales can you run point? Call my cell if anything develops!" She yells over her shoulder before swinging herself into the Jeep; slamming it into gear and swerving wildly to avoid hitting Crane.

"Jesus, get in the damn car!" She hollers as he stupidly fumbles with the door, a panicked expression on his face. He'd nearly met his demise by these cursed vehicles far too many times to ever feel comfortable around them.

**XxX**

**Cabin of Deceased August Corbin**

"Miss Mills!" Crane tries to catch her before she jumps out of the car without putting it in park. Ignoring him, Abbie takes the porch steps in one leap, a feat that is mind-boggling for Ichabod Crane, seeing as she is one of the shortest women he has ever encountered. She yells her sister's name and whips her gun out while opening the cabin door.

"Jenny!" The urgency in her voice causes Crane to give pause. In the past few months he has seen her in many different states of mind. But he's never heard this tone, seen this side. Exposed. Vulnerable. Afraid to lose someone she's only just gotten back.

They are met with no answer from her sister. Crane feels himself being pulled to the left and winces as his shoulder roughly collides with the wall. Abbie looks up at him helplessly, imploring him- why, exactly, he doesn't know.

"Do something," she growls, tears pooling in her pretty brown eyes. "Help me find my sister." She says urgently. Her back is against the wall and one foot crosses calculatedly in front of the other as she makes her way further into the room. Crane can do nothing but watch, mesmerized.

"Jennifer!" She scans the room quickly, her gun swiping from side to side. Her training as an officer of the law allows her to take in her surroundings quickly and her line of sight zeroes in on the cracked mirror at the exact moment her sister runs into the room, a flurry of hair, limbs, and shouts.

"Abbie! Look!" Unable to properly express her relief she gasps as Jenny pulls her to the mirror and shows her the crack along the glass.

Gingerly, almost to ensure she is in fact seeing things correctly, Abbie touches the glass.

"It can't be." Crane steps behind Abbie –which doesn't go unnoticed by Jenny- and places his hands behind his back.

"It appears Moloch is making a return." Obviously. Watching her younger sister, she is still unable to express the relief she wants to as her mind reels with shock.

"There's more." Jenny recounts the events, including the doppelgangers' demise and raises her shirt to show the bruise along her abdomen.

"Miss Jenny, this is most improper!" Crane turns swiftly to avoid seeing Abbie's sister while she is indecent. He can sense the sisters sharing a simultaneous eye roll.

"I was worried as hell." Abbie says, dropping to her knees and running her fingers gently along the dark bruise. Crane looks over his shoulder to see Abbie tending to her sister; the gentle way she touches her, the way her eyes soften as she tries to gauge the amount of pain she is in- it's all terribly unfamiliar to him.

"Abbie," she hisses drawing in her abdomen and rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "That hurts." Nodding Abbie stands and walks the perimeter of the room.

"Explain Crane. I know you have a reason for this."

He looks hastily over his shoulder to ensure that Jenny is in fact decent, before turning around to face the two. "Miss Jenny will you recount the events for me one more time?"

Jenny retold the story slowly, from the beginning. It wasn't that she didn't think Crane was capable of keeping up, but she was instead unnerved by the way Abbie was scrutinizing her so closely. When she finished, Crane took his time answering.

"Miss Jenny, I believe you are in grave danger. Moloch is marking you and the fact that your mirror-self is deceased, does not bode well, I think." He opens a cabinet and hands her a pot.

"Look into it." All three gather around it, but only two images are looking back. "He's already killed your reflection."

"You can't be serious. Are you serious Crane?" Abbie squeaks.

"You can't be serious. Are you sure Crane?" Jenny puts a hand to her bruised stomach. Shock and then resignation register on her face as she sits down in the nearest chair, she lets out a sigh.

"Corbin did say there would come a time when a sacrifice would be needed."

A stunned silence overtakes the room as the three of them contemplate the implications of the statement.

**XxX**

**O'Donnahue's Tavern**

Her fifth drink.

The first was a quick shot. Whiskey. Jim Bean. It went down easy. A friend, in one of her more annoying moments, had once told her 'whiskey gets you frisky.' Maybe there was some truth to the statement though because as she sat alone at the bar, with alcohol coursing through her veins, she felt more than a little frisky. A quick, innocuous, "Here you go Lieutenant Mills, enjoy," and she could be well on her way. She was in danger and she didn't even know it yet.

Her second drink, well, she was sure she was going to stop after that one. Hell, she had to figure out a way to keep her sister alive, so that was going to be the last one.

That was three drinks and forty five minutes ago.

Five drinks in one whole hour was a poor decision. For the guys at the station, this was nothing –but she, on the other hand, was five feet one inch and weighed exactly one hundred and sixteen pounds meaning she was more than a little inebriated. She was drunker than drunk.

Eyes heavy, tongue thick, she lolls her head languidly to the side when a hand touches her thigh.

"Feeling Froggy …" She teases with a sultry lilt to her voice. The man sitting next to her could be an ax murderer, a big burly woman, or a psychotic patient escaped from an institution. But she didn't care. It was late, she was drunk, and she needed a distraction. She needed to let go for once and stop being so damn uptight.

She was Abbie, the good one, but even she needed a break every once in a while.

"Luke." She breathes.

He's sitting there, dimpled smile and dark hair still damp from a shower, with his leather jacket hugging his broad shoulders. To make matters worse, his hand is still resting reassuringly on her thigh, she's creaming and oh God she's so wet all of a sudden that her panties are probably stuck to her nether regions.

His eyes darken because he _knows. _And he also knows that he probably shouldn't because he knows she's drunk, that's why Anthony called him here after all, and she might not even remember this in the morning. But her lips are so pouty, she's leaning toward him, and he's missed her so much. So against his better judgment, he does it.

Their lips meet and suddenly she's in his lap and they're in public, two officers clinging to each other and damn near fucking in the dirty tavern in little Sleepy Hollow where everyone will know that Abigail Mills and Luke Morales were dry humping on a bar stool.

"We need to go." He picks her up off her stool; he always loved how small she was and sets her gently on the ground keeping her close to him. She hugs him closer, loving this feeling of familiarity. She missed it, how well they fit together.

"M-my drink," she stutters, stumbling against him as she makes a grab for the dark liquid.

"No more Abs, we need to get you home."

She nods, at least she thinks she does, but her head feels heavy and she can't lift it. So when Luke takes her chin and raises her face to meet his, she thanks God because it gives her a much-needed sense of stability. Her face is against his chest, and she can hear his heart thunder against her ear. When he turns her so that her face nestles his arm and leads her out of the bar, she knows he's going to be in her bed before the end of the night.

It's a wonder he manages to get her out of the bar. She's incredibly unsteady on her feet, but once she hits the crisp air she gains a little clarity; enough to turn to him, rise on her toes, and give him an open-mouthed kiss. Enough to thread her arms around his neck and grind her hips against his.

She whimpers, he growls. Fuck it all. He backs her against the wall and lifts her up he plunders her mouth, greedily and animalistic. He tastes whiskey, vodka, Coke, and peanuts on her breath. She grins wickedly against his lips and brushes her trembling fingers over his cheekbone.

"How long has it been for you Luke?" The alcohol makes her brave, it makes her say and do things she would never dream of. She doesn't like that she's so drunk but it feels good to be free. To let go and enjoy. She can feel his eyes roaming her face, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and when she sees his pupils dilate she knows he's feeling the pull too.

She grinds her hips against his and licks her lips, desperate for a release. She sucks his lip into her mouth then bites roughly almost hard enough to draw blood. He uses his hands to still her hips and gazes into her eyes. How one woman can have such an effect on him he doesn't know, but he wants this, he wants _her._ But he wants to do it right and she's so drunk that it can't be right. He wants her to wake up in the morning without wanting to punch him, or worse, shoot him. And so, reluctantly, he dodges her next barrage of kisses, grips her hips so tight she cries out, and rests his forehead against hers.

"Grace." He says it firmly, needing her to say it. Needing her to understand what his means to him.

"Answer me Luke."

She smacks him, hard enough for her hand to leave an angry red mark on his jaw, hard enough to make his member jump, and hard enough to make him forget chivalry. He's only a man. He has needs and she's more than willing to accommodate him. He couldn't care less about chivalry in this moment. He's gripping her hips and all he wants to do is take her right here in the middle of the damn street, for the entirety of the town to see. With a growl he manages to back her into the alley, pressing her against the brick wall.

"How long has it been for you Abbie?" he whispers hotly in her ear grinding his growing erection into her backside. She whimpers again and presses back against him daring him to challenge her. He sweeps her hair to the side and sucks at the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, cupping her through her jeans. With every moan, whimper, and kiss, he grows harder, his jeans straining almost painfully against him.

"It's been so long." He tantalizes unzipping her jeans. She groans and looks back at him. Eyes heavy, lips swollen, panties wet. She grinds back against him again.

"Please." She begs, not embarrassed in the least that he's managed to reduce her to such behavior. She had thought she would be content to simply be drunk in a bar with cheap alcohol, bad music, and stale peanuts but this; him on her, teasing her, rocking his palm against her core and -oh yes, his lips on her earlobe- she knows, even in a drunken haze that this is so much more than she could have expected. Part of her knows she's going to regret her decision in the morning and part of her feels that this is where she's supposed to be but in the moment, when his finger finally manages to find its way past her jeans and under her panties, she doesn't care which part of her is actually correct.

"Luke," she breathes, her fisted hand connecting with the brick wall. "God." She chokes out almost in a sob.

He tongue explores her mouth fervently when she tips her chin back to look at him. Curling his finger, he smirks slyly into the kiss.

"I want you Abbie. I want you beneath me, writhing, shaking, and begging me to let you come." With that, she's torn apart, crying out and gripping his wrist.

"Luke." She pants. He misses this, her shaking under him, his name a breathless whisper on her lips. He's so hard he can't think straight and when she grinds back against him he hisses and bites his lip in order to prevent himself from losing it right there. And then the tables are turned and as much as she misses him inside her she has his back against the wall, she's on her knees and pulling him out of his pants before he can even realize what's happening.

"Don't." He tries, but it's too late. Her lips are on his cock, taking him deep and when she sucks then blows on him his hips buck and a growl escapes his lips. Her mouth is divine and when she cups his balls something in him snaps and he bucks wildly, grabbing her hair and pushing himself further into her. She gags and he can't help but respond in kind, forcing her name through his gritted teeth.

He hears the sound of footsteps in the distance and even though he knows he should really make her stop, that he should try to find _some _sense of dignity, he cannot. She's sucking his tip, murmuring dirty nothings around mouthfuls of him, and when she looks up at him and winks, he loses it. Hot and sweaty he crashes into her mouth, grabbing handfuls of her hair and uttering a violent stream of profanities.

"Hey!" The footsteps sound closer pulling them out of their coital bliss. "Hey, Miss."

A sharp shake to her body brings Abbie out of her reverie. Her blurry eyes search the bar wondering where Luke had gone and how she had ended up back on this barstool, a half empty glass in her hand. She lolls her head to the right, taking in the stout man next to her.

"Are you alright, Miss?"

"Yeah," Abbie clears her throat. "I think I just need a cab."

**XxX**

**Cabin of Deceased August Corbin**

She feels the object against her back before she can reach her own gun. It's digging into her spine and she knows that whatever it is, it's sharp and she needs to remain calm in order to find a way out of this situation.

"Who are you?" She tries to turn her head but a sharp blow to her lip makes her vision blur and snaps her head back front facing. Crane told her she was in danger, that Moloch had a plan and maybe this was that plan coming to fruition. There's nothing she can do but see this through, so she swallows her fear, spits blood again, and allows anger to flood through her. She's pissed.

"In the car, Jennifer." And with that, there's a prick in her back and her world goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sleepy Hollow**

**Disclaimer: Please forgive me as I forgot to add this to chapters one and two: None of the characters belong to me. All character credit goes to Washington Irving and Fox.**

**A/N- I know it's been entirely too long since I've updated and it's short at that, please forgive me. My grandmother has been ill and to top it off Arkansas just got the freakiest ice storm since '09. Chapter 4 is being written and SHOULD be up within two weeks! Hang in there!**

**XxX**

**Sleepy Hollow, Exact Location Unknown**

Red. So much red. He watched as a demon, its opaquely white skin glowing in the moonlight is thrown back by an unseen assailant. Across the forest a battle takes place all around him. He wonders when the good lieutenant had managed to rendezvous with him and how that rendezvous had led him here. And… Speaking of Ms. Mills… he circles the area, taking in the scene unfolding before him; he sees no sign of her.

"Lieutenant!" He runs toward a demon as it howls in delight. It has its newest victim by the throat, shaking him violently like a malevolent child playing with a ragdoll. Crane grabs the man's fallen sword and, without a second thought, swings the blade with as much force as he can muster. His efforts are rewarded, as he manages to slice the creatures head clean off. The demon's body collapses limply, the void where its head once stood spraying a thick, red substance he can only assume is blood. The liquid splatters all over him and his foreign companion.

Where is he? How did this battle come to be? Most importantly, where is Lieutenant Mills?

Wiping his eyes, Crane bends down to offer his hand in assistance to the gasping man below him when a bullet enters his chest. Shock, fear, and consternation go through his mind just before he falls to the ground. Sounds fade, his vision tunnels, and he feels his heart working twice as hard to pump blood through his veins. And for once, he welcomes death. And then nothing. Black.

Lying completely still he listens. Eyes closed, body relaxed and head cocked slightly to further his hearing. The situation is so surreal that he wiggles his toes in his boots to ensure he is in fact alive. The air is crisp, charged with an electric current that he can't help but take a deep breath of. Is this a dream? His breathing is shallow, and the ground beneath him no longer vibrates with the action of battle. All sounds have ceased. With testy fingers, he touches the spot where bullet collided with his fragile skin. While the nickel sized circle drenched in his blood is evidence of the gun shot, there is no wound. His chest is closed. _No bullet?_ Well, this is mind boggling. His skin prickles with a sudden change in temperature. With a deep breath and a shudder he shakily clamors to his feet. The forest is silent, the battle since ceased, and his unknown brothers in arms are long gone.

"Lieutenant?" He yells out, eyes searching for her. Rubbing his arms against the creeping coldness he tries to see through the dense fog that has descended upon the forest; then, it dawns on him. He has died. The bullet that made contact with his chest has ended his life. But what of Ms. Mills? There are to be two witnesses are there not? On a whim he calls to _her_. Maybe fate has determined it is time for them to be together again.

"Katrina?" He closes his eyes hoping for some sign of her. A whiff of her perfume, the soft fall of her footsteps against the forest leaves, the air suddenly coming in a rush as she nears him. Nothing but silence meets him after his echo has faded. He opens his mouth to scream for someone, anyone to help him.

"Ichabod, my love." She wraps herself up in his arms, body shivering slightly.

"It's been so long." He kisses the top of her head noting her shiver.

"Are you unwell?" He murmurs amongst her hair, taking in her scent. He notices with brand new eyes how she fits just so against him, her head rests against his jaw, her hair bright against the moonlight. She nods, looks up at him.

"I am. I have much to tell you." She steals a quick kiss and fingers the space where his bullet wound should be.

**XxX**

**Residence of Lt. Abbie Mills**

The shrill of the alarm has Lieutenant Abbie Mills shooting up in bed. The jackhammering in her head combined with the nausea from last night's drinking escapade has her lying down soon enough with a hiss and an, "Oh hell."

She needs to get up. She has a job –two jobs if you count her extracurricular activities with Crane- and her mounting paperwork won't handle itself. Maybe she should just call out today. She smiles (more like grimaces due to the pain in her head) and relaxes. Her shoulders relax, her neck loses its tension, and she thinks maybe she can shake this awful migraine coming on. But no, she rolls over slowly, noting that only three minutes have passed before the damned alarm began to blare and now, and swings her legs over the bed.

Coffee. That's what she needed. But a beer will get rid of the hangover faster; she learned that trick in college. Moving as gingerly as possible, she sets a pot of coffee on then reaches into the fridge for a beer.

"I'm going to hell." She thinks taking a long pull from her beer and twisting the hot water knob for her shower. What got into her last night? She rarely breaks her two drink rule, and if she does it's never to such excess. She places her half-drunk beer on the ceramic countertop with a clink and slowly drags her tired, burning eyes up to face herself in the full length mirror.

She looks awful. No, worse than awful. The mother of five (three of which were currently infected with the flu) with the perverted husband who lived three houses down looks awful-Abbie looks like death warmed over. Snatching her brush from the side of the sink, she runs a few fingers through her hair.

"You look like pure hell." She tells herself. Even though her hands have a slight tremor, she begins the tedious task of brushing out her hair. Even her voice sounds foreign to her. Gravelly with too little sleep, her mouth so dry she has no saliva to swallow to wet her throat. She finds a hair tie and carefully brushes her hair into a neat ponytail, leaving her bangs loose. Her eyes, she notes as she looks for bobby pins, are so bled shot she looks as if she's popped a blood vessel. Surely, she hadn't had _that _much to drink. What was her problem? She was acting like an air headed high school student. Finishing her beer, she stepped into the shower careful of her injured shoulder and began to wash. It had been three days and the damn thing still stung like a bitch. In just four short months she had gone from Lieutenant Abigail Mills soon to be Federal agent Abigail Mills, to second witness and still, Lieutenant Mills. She'd told herself she had to cool it with Luke because not only was their relationship one sided, they couldn't make a long distance relationship work. That was then; four months ago. Now, here he was, rudely invading her thoughts, causing her to have a yearning she had no business having for him. Then there was Crane. God, that man. Chiding herself, she took a moment away from herself pity and examined her shoulder. That damn Moloch had gotten her good. The claw marks were long and deep, puffed and raised on her skin; the surrounding area red and bruised. Rolling her shoulder slowly, agonizingly, she bit her lip against the pain and tried to keep the circulation flowing. Her life; she felt for a towel with her good arm; was in utter disarray. And to make matters worse she thought, quickly drying herself and wrapping the towel around her, her doorbell was ringing. Then the banging began. Pounding, a deep _boom, boom, boom_ followed by the ringing of the doorbell again.

Creeping down the hall on the balls of her feet, heart hammering in her chest, she no longer had water logged ears, a splitting headache, or the fuzziness that comes from a night of inebriation. She was alert, aware, and after noting that it was not yet seven in the morning, highly perturbed.

"It is too early for this nonsense." Stealthily, she slides a knife out of the block on her way passed the kitchen and palmed the blade, prepared to drive it to the hilt if necessary.

"Who is it?" She growled standing on tiptoes to look through her peephole. Damn, too dark. The pounding continued and she heard the bark of a few neighborhood dogs. The door is flung open and before either has a chance to speak, the tip of the knife blade is against his throat and his hands are in the air after he nearly squeaks out a pathetic, "Lieutenant!" Afraid that the blade, already dangerously close to his Adam's apple will slice it clean off if he even swallows. She's a hellion and all he could do was stare at her. Her eyes are wild and extremely red, and she is clad in nothing but her bathing attire. His eyes gravitate to that hideous scar on her shoulder, and before he can stop himself his fingers brush gently against it. With a hiss and swear, she snaps back to the present and glares at him, relaxing down from tiptoes to the heels of her feet.

"Crane have you lost your damn mind?" She takes a step back to look at him, entirely dumbfounded. His eyes are still on her shoulder, the intensity of his gaze causing her to shift uncomfortably.

"How did you get here? _Why _are you here?" She moves aside for him to enter her house and waits impatiently while he gapes at her.

"You're injured." She was feeling too much. He was on her doorstep; she was having daydreams about Luke, the seven years of tribulation, her sister. One thing at a time.

"Crane. I'm going to get dressed. . ." She spits out through gritted teeth and points to her living room with the blade of the knife she's still holding. Not giving him time to answer, not waiting to see if he would indeed do as she commanded, she turned on her heel and after throwing the knife into the sink, all but stomped to her bedroom like a scorned child. She took her time, finding good jeans and grabbed the first she could find, taking nearly five minutes to maneuver into it with as little pain as possible. Afterwards she made her way to the bathroom and after using Visine and brushing her teeth she felt slightly human. She now had another headache for an entirely different reason. Today was going to be long as hell.

"Okay. Now that my senses are on complete overload," she began making her way to the kitchen only to walk straight into his chest. His eyes had turned a deep Cerulean color, intense, staring at the spot on her body where those awful claws had been. He hadn't paid any attention to her in her towel; his normal prudery would have typically elicited a flush and an evasion of sight until she became decent. Something is… off.

"Crane." She ventured gently. "You're creeping me out. Want to tell me how you even knew where I lived?" No answer.

"Nevermind that, _how _did you get here?" She sided stepped him and went to the kitchen to put on a cup of coffee. Today was supposed to be an easy day; a day to catch up on paperwork, sit in the office. She suspected it was Irving's way of letting her shoulder get better without actually confining her to desk duty, or worse, making her take some time off. One look at Crane however, blew that easy day right out the window.

"Katrina told me." Her finger slipped on the mug she was reaching down to get and she almost dropped it on the counter.

"What?" Coffee was forgotten. She almost pulled out another beer. This man was going to turn her into an alcoholic, just like daddy.

"I saw her Ms. Mills. There was a battle. I cannot confirm where, when, or even why, but she came to me. She told me that Moloch grows stronger with the help of a family here in Sleepy Hollow; two sacrifices were needed, and that there was a way to free her from the purgatory she resides in." He looks wistful, giddy almost and then he takes stock of the stoic expression on Abbie's face.

"Katrina. You're kidding me right?" And she resumes making her coffee.

"Is this not a cause for jubilation?" The sounds of the coffee brewing are suddenly too loud for the quiet room.

"What Crane? Death for two members of Sleepy Hollow, a battle that I have no idea how to prepare for, _when _to prepare for, or the fact that your wife can be released from purgatory?" She reaches to pick up the coffee pot with her left hand and almost drops the pot, pain searing her left side. Well, this was a bitch.

"Let me help you Ms. Mills." Always the gentleman, she thinks holding up a hand, signaling she could handle it.

"So. What do we have to do to help Katrina?" She seemed to spit the name out every time she spoke it, she had no reason to dislike the woman and rightfully Crane should be excited at the prospect of seeing his wife again. Good, maybe she can see if her and Luke can make their relationship work. Her phone chirped in her pocket and she pulled it out seeing her captain's name on the readout, cutting him off before he can reply.

"Mills."

"Have you happened to see your sister?" Captain Irving sounded rushed, a barely perceptible hitch in his voice.

"No, I actually haven't." It was as if she could feel him nodding through the phone.

"Thanks. See you when you get to the station." He disconnects the call before she can ask why he is looking for her sister.

"Ms. Mills," he begins rather sharply. "What is the cause of your blatant consternation regarding Katrina?"He watches her, searching for something yet unseen. When had she begun to look so tired? The light from her gorgeous brown eyes had faded her countenance weary. Softening, he takes a different approach.

"How did you receive those awful scratches to your shoulder?" He drops his eyes to the spot on her shirt then lifts his eyes to her face. When all he is met with is silence, he moves to her.

"Well?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Sleepy Hollow**

**Disclaimer: All character credit goes to Washington Irving and Fox.**

**A/N- Hey guys! Thanks for reading! A couple of things however:**

**My wife's uncle is in the hospital on life support so obviously that may hinder an update, depending on what goes on with him. If all continues well, we'll be okay. **

**As of January 1 (my birthday!) I'll be writing a one shot series for both this fandom and Castle based off of the seven deadly sins as a response to the challenge posted on Destiny's Gateway. The one for Sleepy Hollow will be entitled, 'Who The Bleep Did I Marry?!' and the one for Castle will be entitled, 'Seven Forbidden Fruits.' Feel free to check those out if you so please! As usual, R&R!**

**XO,**

**Jazz**

**XxX**

**Residence of Lt. Abbie Mills**

"Well?" He stands in front of her, cutting off any chance of an escape from the kitchen. His eyes have that blazing intensity again, which turn them that shade of blue so deep it loses ability to be named. His eyes bore into hers is as if he can extricate the answers to his questions without a word from her. He's always looked at her like that, known the deep dark secrets that she held there. No one, not the various men she had had the acquaintance of, not even Luke, managed to look at her like this. He takes the mug from her and casually places it on the counter again giving her nothing to use as an escape from him or the intensity of his fierce gaze.

When she slowly and painfully drags her eyes up to his again she melts. Something about Ichabod Crane could calm her like nothing or anyone had been able to before. Maybe it was the fact that she wouldn't let anyone get close enough to see her vulnerable side, and thus she wouldn't need to be calmed. With Ichabod however, she couldn't help it. When she felt strong, he spotted her weakness, when she had her walls fully erected, he tore them down with a simple flick, and when she was opaque he viewed her as transparent. She felt herself opening up, letting go of the mistrust she harbored for everyone else and giving herself fully to him. Maybe that was why it hurt every time he mentioned his wife, her name, compared Abby to her, or talked about their life. This man out of time, in a marriage that reached its full fruition, living in a world he never knew existed.

The moment of silence is stretching out for too long, the silence screaming in her ears. Crane takes another step towards her, his chest nearly crashing intowith her face due to their height difference. She feels her hand rise, almost of its own volition, and watches as she slowly frameshis cheek. She slowly rises to her toes and watches as his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows audibly. His calloused fingers brush against her cheek and just as she feels his warm breath on her lips, she stiffens. As badly as she wants this, she knows she cannot. She wouldn't be able to stop herself. Besides, he isn't hers to have. Her mind races and she wonders how she's going to survive the pull that continually draws them together.

"Ms. Mills?" He says huskily. She hears the want in his voice but she also sees his uncertainty. She lowers to the flats of her feet, takes her hand from his cheek, and clears her throat.

"I'm sorry." She mumbles ashamedly. He shakes his head and waves his hand but she knows, just as he knows, neither of them will forget this moment. And secretly, neither of them wants to.

"We have much to discuss," His clipped formal tone is back and she notices that he's forcing himself to meet her eye. "I have a great deal you need to know. But most importantly I, in turn, demand to know what has happened to your shoulder." He steps back, and hands her the coffee cup. He squares his shoulders and she nods.

"Back to business," She mutters.

**Sleepy Hollow, Exact Location Unknown**

Trying not to gag, she turns her head to spit the acrid liquid out, and slowly opens her eyes. Her memory is slightly obscure but she can remember a man's voice. She was told to go somewhere.

No, to do something.

A car maybe?

She doesn't care, all she knows is that they're not friendlies and she needs to get out of dodge quickly.

She kicks wildly and when one her kicks nail her assailant in the groin; she makes a run towards the nearest exit. Where is she? She knows she was in a building of some sort. The dank walls are a murky green color. The paint is so chipped that it looks almost a speckled grey. Puddles of liquid she assumed were water, but from the smell, she ascertains are urine, slosh at her feet. The light overhead flickers and for one terrifying moment, she panics, fearful that it may give out. Her hearing fades out and she assumes his footsteps are falling behind. Now if only she can find a way out.

It's not until she reaches the end of the hallway and is forced to turn right or left that she feels as if she may recognize this building. Something about the numbers on the doors… Unable to take a moment to reflect, she turns left, guided by her instinct. She uses both hands to wipe her forehead as they're tightly bound by rope and screams when she hears a male voice surprisingly close behind her. He must have stepped out of one of the doors; there was no one behind her when she turned down the hall. She chances a quick look over her shoulder.

"There is no need for violence Jennifer. Just tell us what we need to know and you can leave on your own free will.

The man, shrouded in shadows, is clearly tall. Much taller than she, she's no Abby, but she isn't Crane either. From his stature she'd place him at easily at 6'2 or a little taller, strong build, wide shoulders, trim waist. She memorized this and scanned the hallway again for a weapon. Grabbing the fire ax mounted on the wall she lifts her knees a little higher, forces air into her lungs, and runs faster.

"Fuck you!" She yells weakly, running, or so she thinks, faster. Her head is unfocused, her vision blurs, and she's panting so hard she feels as if she may pass out. She hears him grunt from exertion and suddenly her stomach rolls over on itself.

Looking down, she sees through hazy vision, a quickly spreading reddish brown stain on her side through her shirt. He had shot her there? No. There was no sound of a bullet casing hitting the ground or from the gun firing. A silencer? Not a gunshot. She gingerly touches the spot and looks down at her fingers, a protruding object in her soft flesh. He'd thrown a penknife at her.

Son of a bitch.

She drops the ax and leans against the wall. The man had not changed position and she realizes, as she looks back at him, that she hasn't moved much from the time she initially looked at him.

Double son of a bitch.

She is sweating bullets and her heart is hammering so loudly she cannot hear the words he's shouting at her.

"No," She mumbles, pulling it out slowly and biting her lip to prevent herself from crying out from the pain. Her right hand grasps her left side while she uses her left to steady herself against the wall. She has to get out of here no matter what, she tells herself and forces one foot in front of the other. Footsteps slow, almost drunken, she manages to trip. She feels the wetness on her abdomen and notes that her shirt is entirely stained in the back corner. Pain radiates from the side she was struck on as she reaches behind her and grabs the dropped ax.

The air smells worse the farther into the corridor she gets. Stale from cigarettes, sweat, and her own blood mixed with foreign smells. She drops flat to the ground, the pain causing her to vomit and wipes her face. Taking a quick moment to clean her hands on her sodden jeans, she looks around trying to determine the proper course of action. Her thoughts are cut short when she hears his grunting again. He's closer than she realized. She continues army crawling, gasping for air, and when sweat starts rolling down her forehead, the salty liquid hindering her already blurred vision, she wonders idly as her arms give out, _what did they drug me with?_

"I told you we would not resort to violence, but make no mistake," When had he managed to stand above her, she wonders, as she hadn't heard any footfalls whatsoever. "You will tell us what we need to know and you will do it now. Try a stunt like this again," He presses his thumb into the now gaping wound on the side of her abdomen causing her to cry out in pain. She feels her stomach begin to churn and swallows the lump of vomit that rises in her throat.

She notices how nimble he is as he walks toward her. He wears black gloves on his hands with a red H and red lines on them. His black, calf length boots have multiple marks on them, from years of good use, she notices. His pale skin looks sickly as he leans down to peer into her face, his breath rancid; and his teeth appear impossibly sharp, like a vampire's. In the grey lamplight she can see the ferocity in his eyes. She gasps.

"We will kill you." He says icily, still not taking his thumb off of her.

"When I get out of here," she begins, her throat burning, sweat pouring down her face and shaking violently.

"I'm going to kill you." And then, Jennifer Mills passes out.

**Residence of Lt. Abbie Mills**

As if on cue to cut yet another bout of intense silence, her phone rings. Irving again. She seriously would like to know what his issue with her sister is. She's been extremely well behaved; even her relationship with Abbie has greatly improved. It isn't perfect but they are communicating regularly and even behaving like siblings. One day they would be close again. So what, Abbie mused, is Irving not telling her? Surely he wouldn't neglect to tell her that her younger sister has resorted back to her former ways, would he? Her phone continues to ring and snapping back to the present moment she slides her finger along the bottom of the screen to answer his incoming call.

"Sir." Taking advantage of the distraction again, she turns her back to Crane breathing slowly to ease the tension in her neck, shoulders, and back. He rubs his forehead and clears his throat; with no hurry in his movements and, for the first time, completely at ease in her kitchen, he distracts himself by pouring out her cup of Joe and procuring fresh cups for the both of them. He takes a small sip to make sure he had used sugar then turns as she sighs loudly. Crane raises his eyebrows in reply, before putting the top back on the sugar canister. She looks worn-down.

"Barring anything major," she begins, and after taking a deep sip of coffee, and saluting him with the cup in thanks, continues. "I have the day off. Just as well, my entire body is screaming." She raises her shoulders and winces, her right hand coming up to cover it. She tells him raising her cup back to her lips, the hot liquid seeming to have no effect on her. She smiles at him over the rim of the cup.

"Lieutenant." Crane begins slowly, softly. He looks at her as if he wants nothing more than to gather her into his arms and hold her forever. Cherish her. Protect her. He takes a possessive step towards her and she steps backwards bumping into the counter.

"You're a godsend Crane. Even if it is weird that I have no idea how you, not only know where I live, but how you managed to get here." Abbie says to break the ice and relieve the tension. He offers her a smile then nods toward the doorway, back stepping gracefully.

"Let us discuss your wound Ms. Mills." He guides her to the sofa and crosses his legs regally.

"I would be very much obliged if you would explain to me from beginning to end the circumstances surrounding your shoulder." He states eyeing her shoulder. She really does look worse for wear to him.

"You should know Crane, you were there. Or were you too busy with Katrina?" She bites the name out again looking into her cup. She hears a sharp intake of breath and looks up to see the panic on his face.

"Ms. Mills."

**Sleepy Hollow Forrest, Sometime after midnight**

She writhes; her vision blurry due to the sweat rolling down her face. The air smells musty; a mixture of the wood burning, her sweat, tears, and the animals slaughtered for the pre-sacrifice. She closes her eyes and bows her head.

"The Lord is my strength. Hallowed be thy name. You above all else deserve the honor, glory, and praise. Give me the…" She screams, body shaking, cutting her prayer short. Her wrists are bound to a stake, an unseen culprit pulling the rope tighter and tighter; she begins to lose all circulation until finally, her wrist start to bleed.

The chant begins and she loses her breath, body jerking almost in tune with the rhythmic drums. Her lips move but no sound escapes. A figure clad in white seems to move into focus from the background.

_Horned maiden huntress, Artemis, Artemis, new moon come to us._

_Silver shinning wheel of radiance, radiance._

_Mother, come to us._

_Honored queen of wisdom, Hectate, Hectate,_

_Old one, come to us. _

"My sweet, sweet Adelle." The woman shivers, turning her face away from the tip of the blade coming towards her. Her thoughts are confused, her crystal blue eyes are red rimmed from crying, and her shoulder length white-blonde hair is matted to the nape of her neck by her own sweat. Her face, angelic and youthful is screwed in fear; her Habit thrown astray on the forest floor. Stripped naked, she averts her eyes from the group of women chanting in front her, embarrassed by her nudity. Through the smoke she sees a woman approach her and relief calms her face.

"Joan." The woman named Adelle croaks, fingers reaching out, though bound, to her assailant. Tears stream down her pretty, milk complexion. Ignoring her pleas, tears, and curses, she begins to draw a double spiral on her cheek with the dagger she holds.

"Adelle you knew that this day was coming. The Order of the Blood Moon sealed your fate when they began their sacrificial rites. Fear not my lamb," She kisses her marred cheek, her blood visible on her lips.

"This symbol is weaving the path home for you my dear. You my young one, are leaving in good grace." She carves the spiral slowly, grimly, but does not rush despite the fact that she knows her victim is in pain.

"This spiral my child," she drops onto to one knee and looks up at Adelle with loving, tender, almost maternal eyes and holds the tip against her thigh. She clicks her tongue sadly. "Forever inward and forever outward allows your being, both physical and spiritual to meet. To continue this amazing dance of life, inhabiting both planes of existence simultaneously. Don't you feel it?" Still on her knees she opens her arms and tilts her face heavenward as she asks her question. Joan, also young like Adelle, has an angelic face, long, dark, curling hair, but brilliant green eyes. Her lips purse and she flashes Adelle her deep dimples. After she carves the final two marks, one on each thigh, she stands.

"Do you feel your physical body becoming in tune with your spiritual body?" She licks the woman's lips, kisses her nose, neck, and collar bone causing her to scrunch her nose and turn her face away. Joan strokes her cheek, gently holding her chin and locking eyes with her.

"Please Joan. There must be another way." Adelle whispers, her wide eyes pain stricken and panicked. Joan stands back, joining hands with the other women in attendance. All are silent. All are clad in only white robes. While Joan and Adelle are young, the remaining women are older in age. There are faces partially hidden but their hooded robes. Some, Adelle can see by the hair hanging from the robes, are blondes, brunettes, and one red head. The chanting reaches fever pitch in the background and all watch as on a blink from Joan, Adelle is engulfed in flames, still writhing, her eyes begging for her release. The chanting stops. The crickets croaking in the nearby tall grasses have silenced, and even Adelle's own screams pause. The sight, women clothed in simple white robes, holding hands in a circle before the large crackling fire, and heads upturned woman on a stake surrounded by flames, is absolutely breathtaking. As she watches her friend burn, Joan thinks that the world is a scary place and while she did not enjoy the death of her Adelle; she knows all will be explained later. She has faith that good will triumph over evil; and Father Blake will have answers if this sacrifice does not work.

Looking up at the exact moment the moon makes an appearance from a cloud bank, Joan's ghost white face is radiated by the light. In the distance a thunder roll yells at a howling wolf and the night sounds once again begin. The fire crackles loudly and drowns her out as she closes her and says in a soft whisper.

"The war has begun. God protect us all."

**Residence of Lt. Abbie Mills**

"Let me get this straight," Abbie leans forward, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. She looks over at him after a moment to ensure he is in fact serious. "In order to free Katrina from Purgatory we must find the last descendent of Lachlan Fredericks and what? Have him or her perform some type of rite of passage? A spell? Have you thought about what happens when, no, _if_, we find this person? What are you planning to do, ask them politely to free your dead wife?" She sits back and closes her eyes. He is ripping her heart out and he doesn't even know it.

"You have got to be kidding me." She says, the sound muffled by her hands which she's used to cover her face. Ichabod Crane is one loyal man; she can't say she would do the same if the situation were reversed.

"Katrina is not dead!" He shouts, jumping up and beginning to pace She starts. He's only raised his voice once before, and that time was regarding Katrina as well. Maybe she should just stop talking about her. When she does things get… Loud.

"She was, IS, flesh and blood. Very much alive, just… Trapped." He says weakly. He gives her a pleading look then clears his throat, the appearance of tears in his eyes. "Ms. Mills this is my wife. I'm asking you, no, pleading with you to help me do anything to save her." Nodding curtly, Abbie also stands.

"Well, we need to figure out where the last descendent of Mr. Fredericks is." Nodding in thanks, Ichabod runs a hand through his hair.

"And afterwards?"

"And afterwards we pray like hell, he or she knows what we're talking about and doesn't think we are absolutely insane."

**Sleepy Hollow, Exact Location Unknown**

Sitting in a chair, arms tied behind her back Jennifer Mills looks at her attacker, one eye swollen shut. She manages a smile despite the fact that her lip is entirely swollen.

"Tell us what we want to know!" The sharp toothed man screams, his voice an eerily calm baritone. His knuckles are raw and bloody, bruised from countless times of inflicting multiple blows to someone. His chest heaves

"I told you. You're not going to get anything out of me. All you've managed to do is piss me off." She growls, voice deep with pain and dryness. She hears the cock of a gun and doesn't even flinch when she hears the gun blast.

**Muahahahahahah!**


End file.
